


To Shield From the Self

by spotlightonmringenue



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25123096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spotlightonmringenue/pseuds/spotlightonmringenue
Summary: They’ve had this discussion before, and it usually ends when Bond promises to bring him back a souvenir if he’s ever let off the leash again. Q calls it an excuse, claiming that Bond knows there’s nothing he could find that Q would actually want, and the trouble is that he’s probably right. Hell, the only thing he’s ever known that Q finds desirable is-“Bond?”
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 6
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Still impatiently waiting for No Time to Die. If you haven't read the tags, I'm posting this for 007 Fest. Go Team Civilian! I should update by Friday with the second half of the story. Enjoy.

The Quartermaster is still at his desk when Bond returns from the testing range and racks the experimental gun on its stand just as the computer chimes, rousing Q from his doze on a stack of paperwork. He clears the email and frowns at Bond, trying to figure out why the agent is here.

“You let me assist with this round of trials,” Bond reminds him, retrieving the form in his pocket that Q asked him to fill out, rating the weapon for the field. He sets it where it won’t get lost before Q can circle the desk.

“It’s important that the Double-O’s approve of the equipment, if you consider that they’re the ones using it,” Q says, reciting the same speech he gave M when the man questioned endangering valuable personnel with unapproved and potentially faulty tech.

“Works for me.” Bond glances around the empty room, wondering what else has been left out for him to get his hands on, but Q catches his attention with a displeased sound - like he’s tasted sour tea.

“What does the color of it have to do with its efficiency?” Q asks, offended as he points to Bond’s comment on the evaluation.

“It’s orange. I can’t wear orange.”

“It’s not an accessory,” Q says. “Saving your life is bit more important than making sure you don’t look washed-out, 007.”

“Camouflage can save my life,” Bond argues. Q releases him with a sigh, scribbling down a note to order new casings with dark tones for the official design.

“Well, thank you anyway,” he says, skimming the rest of the report. “If I’d waited until tomorrow it would have been another week before I could submit it for production.”

“My pleasure. Since M has had me stuck here for a millennium, I didn’t have much else to do this evening.”

“That’s what happens when you run off for half a year with a company car and no explanations.”

The agent props his hip on the desk, shameless as ever about his habit of falling off the map. “I brought it back, didn’t I? Besides, you gave it to me.”

“Which means you still owe me one. I do wonder how you plan to make that up, 007; on an unrelated note, I accept pound sterling and all major credit cards,” Q says, turning to face him with a faintly judgmental smile. They’ve had this discussion before, and it usually ends when Bond promises to bring him back a souvenir if he’s ever let off the leash again. Q calls it an excuse, claiming that Bond knows there’s nothing he could find that Q would actually want, and the trouble is that he’s probably right. Hell, the only thing he’s ever known that Q finds desirable is-

“Bond?”

The agent tunes in, noticing that Q’s head is tilted a little, meeting Bond’s gaze with mild concern.

“That’s a joke, of course. I don’t expect to be paid for a favor.” When his attention clearly returns to their conversation, the Quartermaster’s smile returns. “I’m not sure that any amount of money would cover the things I’ve done for you.”

“I prefer to pay in other ways,” Bond says, waiting for a reaction.

“Sounds lovely,” Q mutters, too distracted as he rifles through paperwork to find the larger file of the weapon Bond was testing.

“Would that work better for you?” 

“Would what?”

Bond spots the object of his search first, tugging it from under Q’s stapler and holding it back as the man reaches for it. 

“Not now, 007. It’s too late- or rather, too early to deal with your antics,” he says, reaching for the folder only to be caught around the waist by Bond’s other hand. His dress shirt is too wide around the waist, something Bond only notices once his palm is pressed to the center of Q’s back.

“Would this work better for you?” Bond clarifies, finally receiving Q’s full concentration. His gaze darts down to the man’s lips, and Q takes a moment to respond, words careful in case he’s misunderstood Bond’s offer. He hasn’t.

“You’re asking if you can kiss me in return for a favor I’ve done you. Did you fall and hit your head in the firing range?”

Bond drops the file behind himself, Q protesting as it lands on the floor but still unable to break from Bond’s embrace.

“Remind me not to request your help again,” Q says coolly, a tone that means the next gun Bond offers to test might blow up or shock him on purpose. “And I’d like to get back to work, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Then let’s call it even.” He removes Q’s glasses for extra incentive, getting an irritated squint in his direction before Q exhales in quiet acquiescence, leaning in to press their mouths together. It’s over before Bond can reciprocate and the Quartermaster takes back his glasses.

“There. Even.”

“Was that so difficult?” Bond asks, letting him go to retrieve up the paperwork. It was all clipped in, Q’s inherent habit of organization proving to be a lifesaver once again.

“Please find somewhere else to be, 007. Unless you would like me to make all your equipment orange in the future.”

By the time Q adds Bond’s evaluation and straightens his papers in the file, the agent has disappeared. He returns to work on his computer, marking a comment in the code so he’s free to type nonsense. After five minutes of silence, when he’s sure that Bond isn’t just lurking in a dark corner, Q buries his face in his hands, cursing softly at his life and the universe in general.

\---

An urgent mission calls Bond away just after the bulk of MI6 staff has left the premises, Q himself intending to head home before the sun rises. He stops packing up when he realizes that he doesn’t trust anyone else to double check that Bond’s equipment is in working order, deciding to run tests on the assorted gear until the agent appears, looking refreshed for the hour.

“Evening, Quartermaster.” He notices Q placing things into a case for him, a calloused hand sliding into his pocket as he steps up to the desk. “Nothing orange, I hope.”

“Your wish is my command, 007. I do hope you don’t grow bored of black and silver or Q branch will have to do a complete overhaul.”

“And how would I ever repay them?” Bond asks, his smirk as irritating as it is delightful. Q clasps the case shut, holding it out as one of the night shift techs approach him with a buggy code. The agent takes the offered handle with unnecessary hand fondling, and if Q happens to watch him leave while pretending to listen as his techie explains the problem, no one else is there to call him on it.

Because Q checks all the agents’ progress during long missions, he knows that Bond’s equipment loss is unintentional and almost justified, being hunted out of his hotel without a chance to recover the items after divesting himself of most of his belongings, in an interrupted attempt to seduce the mark’s daughter. Bond’s forced to use a safe house, trying to control his teeth chattering as he calls MI6 to request backup gear and something to keep out the bloody cold.

“I’ll owe you one,” he assures Q. 

When Bond returns with broken hardware from said second set, Q silently walks into his own office, ignoring the agent’s look of little guilt. 

“I’m wondering if I should make all of your technology subdermal just so you can’t lose it all,” Q says. When he turns with a replacement watch in hand, Bond is standing in the center of the room, watching Q like there’s nothing better to do. He proceeds with caution. “Lucky for you, I’ve learned my lesson. The new line is just as efficient but not as irreplaceable, given the use of materials that are known to be more abundant natural resources. Try it on.”

Bond slides off his suit jacket, draping it over the closest chair and leaning his weight against the front of Q’s desk. He works at the cufflinks, using quick and simple motions to undo the pins and set them aside before rolling up his sleeve.

“It’s easier with help,” he says, nodding to the box as Q’s fingers almost lose their traction, recovering without a big show. He pulls out the cushion, unfastening the watch so he can re-wrap it around Bond’s non-dominant wrist.

“There’s the explosive inside, which you already know. This one also contains a distress signal. Best to not confuse the two,” Q suggests, feeling eyes on him and refusing to look up as he syncs the time with his own device. “That’s all you get until your next mission, which is a relief for MI6’s production line - not that you care.”

Bond’s hand twists to catch Q’s wrist when he attempts to back away and Q continues watching the second hand glide silently around with the passage of time.

“I said I’d pay you back, didn’t I?”

“Am I supposed to assume you meant it?” Q looks up, telling himself to remain calm as Bond’s fingertips graze his pulse, pressing down to let Q know he’s testing him. He waits - but the longer this takes, the more likely it is that Q’s heart will kick right out of his chest and they won’t need Bond’s rough fingers against a vein to know how fast its beating.

Bond is prepared this time, which means that Q isn’t, trying a quick press of lips like the previous encounter only for Bond’s hand to cradle the back of his head before he can escape. It keeps him close, and Q’s eyes remain shut because he’s entirely uncertain of what they’d give away if they were open.

“Two sets of gear,” Bond explains, testing the space between Q’s lips to find a warm welcome. They kiss for long enough that Q has time to make a plan for when it ends, forcing himself to pull back during the next inhale. Bond is a merciful man, both hands releasing Q when it becomes clear that he’s done, a pleased expression focused on rolling down his own sleeve. Q ends up focused on that as well, snapping out of it to gather the remains of the packaging and his sanity. 

“Don’t think I’m condoning your behavior, 007. I want my things back from now on.”

“Yes, Quartermaster.” He can hear the amusement and decides to ignore it, waiting until Bond has slipped back into his jacket to open the door. Rumours are nasty things.

\---

“He has a laptop,” Bond says, greetings abandoned for the sake of time. “Tell me what you need to get access to it.”

“Anything would work if his security isn’t too complex. Connect to the internet using the hotspot in your radio and direct it to this address.” Q rattles off the numbers, adding a bug to the site to make the files accessible in the MI6 server. It’s only halfway through transfer when Q detects heat signatures moving through the house. 

“Under the bed if you would, 007.”

Bond closes the lid nearly shut, allowing Q’s program to continue running as he rolls beneath the bedframe. Two men enter the room, sweeping with flashlights braced on their guns.

“Your eight and eleven o’clock.”

Two silenced shots and the men drop, either dead or bleeding out while unconscious considering their silence as Bond shuffles back out, gliding to his feet.

“Well done, Q. I owe you one.”

Tanner had stopped by Q branch to pick up paperwork, then remained when drawn in by Bond’s unexpected call. They have the agent on speakerphone, Bond’s voice just low enough to hint at something that triggers Tanner’s curiosity, eyes moving to Q in question.

“Just doing my job,” Q says, dismissing the compliment. “I trust you can take things from here?”

Bond hangs up as a response, returning to his work as Q does the same.

“You should take him up on that, you know.” Tanner gives him a cordial smile. “It’s not every day that a Double-O offers an unnamed favor.”

“I think that’s considered an abuse of company resources,” Q says, feeling distinctly pink.

And contrary to that statement, it does seem like they’re trading favors more often than anyone should, Q giving him vital information precisely when he needs it or offering guidance during getaways. No one can call Bond a liar, each promise fulfilled when he arrives back from his missions. It’s as casual as they can make it, considering that they’ve begun to memorize each other’s mouths. 

Q tells himself not to enjoy Bond’s cologne or the way broad fingers tug on Q’s hair when he forgets to breathe. It’s usually a futile warning.

\---

Bond, for all his apparent obliviousness, is quite aware of the effect he’s having on the stoic Quartermaster. He might even say he enjoys having the unique chance to see Q’s desire so plainly. Certain scenarios that he would try to figure out on his own before their arrangement become the cause for a midnight phone call, demanding that he gets to repay Q for his help. And yes, it’s the man’s job to help Bond, but a little gratitude doesn’t go remiss considering that Bond’s one of the most troublesome Double-O’s around. 

After a brief stint in Russia, Bond happens to have all his equipment still intact. He strides into Q branch only to find the small desk in the center of the room entirely empty.

He has to glance at the other employees before they point toward the demonstration room and mumble explanations. When Bond steps into the observation area, a few people with clipboards shuffle out of the way to let him approach the window as 004’s voice comes over the intercom.

“Do you see what I mean? There’s a delay where it has to recognize my palm print so I can’t quickdraw.”

The agent sets their Walther on the table, hand moving faster than the eye can see to fire - only for there to be a clear second of delay before 004 can pull the trigger all the way back. Or at least it feels like a whole second to Bond.

“It’s nice tech but people have been getting the jump on me more often,” 004 admits bitterly.

“I’ll look into it,” Q says, returning from the safe distance he had maintained. “Depending on what the actual program tells me, I should have it ready before your next assignment.”

004 nods, holding out the gun in surrender, but Q slides a case across the table with unstated encouragement for them to place it inside. The Quartermaster retrieves it once the front has been clasped, curling his arm so the concealed weapon is tucked into his side.

“Was that all, 004?”

“The cloth armor that you gave me, was it from R&D?”

“Yes,” Q says warily.

“It itched like hell and almost dissolved when it came in contact with water.”

The men beside Bond shuffle, staring at their clipboards like they’re suddenly fascinated. Q turns a sharp eye toward them only to spot Bond, the accusation written with his expression fading into a professional acceptance.

“I’ll let them know. Make sure to submit an official report as well, just for the record.”

“I won’t,” 004 says, eyeing the weapons along the wall with an impatient eye.

“Thank you for your honesty. Excuse me,” Q says, making his way toward the exit as Bond slowly mirrors him, both stepping out on the other side.

“Your plane wasn’t supposed to get in until tonight.”

“I found something earlier,” Bond says, having to repeat himself once Q removes his ear plugs. They continue on their path back to Q’s workspace, and Bond finds that he wants to test a theory. “This is for you.”

Q was headed around the desk but he stops, turning in place to see Bond holding out his Walther.

“In one piece, as promised.”

The Quartermaster sets aside 004’s case and takes the gun straight from Bond’s grasp, frowning faintly. “It’s more than I expected, honestly. Perhaps I should make you a Most Improved award.”

“There’s more,” Bond tells him, the troubled look remaining as Q extends a hand.

“Scraps again?”

The unblemished radio and earpiece are placed into Q’s palm, getting him to hand back the weapon in favor of a closer look. Bond makes more contact than strictly necessary, Q’s fingers lingering over his own while he takes the weapon. Q’s distracted by the radio as he holds it under the lamp for a clearer view.

“I trust they’re still operable?”

Bond grins, sliding the Walther back into its holster. He watches the Quartermaster set them on the desk, moving to stand behind his computer.

“Congratulations, 007. The Q branch budget appreciates your sacrifice.”

Bond waits, stepping closer to the table as Q takes a seat and begins to type. He clears his throat, waiting for some sort of signal or rescheduling notice. Q stops, forearms resting against the cushioned edge of the desk as his relaxed hands hover over the keys. 

“Did you need something from me?”

The work around them continues to flow, quiet voices and the humming of machinery keeping the background busy. Bond doesn’t respond, narrowing his eyes a fraction as Q continues to watch him, the message getting lost somewhere along the way. 

They give up on charades.

“Thank you for taking care of your equipment,” Q says. “It means that you don’t owe me any favors.”

“Right,” Bond says, oddly hesitant. That wasn’t his intention, and he surveys Q as the man goes back to typing. His arms are moving almost robotically, fingers pressing harder than necessary in a way that suggests he’s misunderstood this as a polite notice to end whatever they were doing. Q’s embarrassed, but he’s allowing Bond a diplomatic departure with an unsaid agreement never to mention this again.

Which is no good.

\---

The next mission takes a month to finish but it all goes well enough. In his hotel room, the night before he returns, Bond takes a napkin from the minibar and slides off a shoe, wrapping his electronics up before smashing them to pieces.

He unfolds the napkin onto Q’s desk, shards scattering over the organized surface as the man stands to greet him. Q branch is silent.

“The gun?”

Bond tries to look contemplative. “I can’t remember the name of the river exactly, but my Walther’s at the bottom of it. Unless you made them buoyant?”

“MI6’s Walther. And no, 007. The guns do not float,” Q says, voice trying very hard to remain level.

“Someone should get on that.” Bond looks around, curious eyes darting away from the scene he’s making while unsubtly eavesdropping. He thought he worked for a quality spy organization.

“Could I see you in my office for a moment?”

Q is talking before Bond can step inside, outside ears straining to catch the scraps of their conversation before the door locks. “Are you trying to get me fired?”  
“Of course not,” Bond says. “What would I do without you?”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Q impatiently waits for him take a seat on the couch, Bond preparing for a lecture that he’s received before.

“I have a budget to maintain. Do you know how much a palm-print sensitive grip costs on an already very expensive weapon?”

“How much do I owe you?” he asks, watching Q falter. Bond likes these little moments. Whenever he leans in close or asks that daring question, Q gets a look like he’s not sure he’s in reality, always uncertain enough to be overwhelmed when Bond follows through. 

“Before or after compensation?”

Bond smiles, holding out a hand that Q takes slowly, fingers grasped in Bond’s own as the agent reels him in, waiting until he’s collapsed into Bond’s lap to initiate the kiss. Arms wind around Bond’s shoulders before he leans back against the couch, enjoying the eager swell of Q’s mouth against his own. Bond’s hand runs up Q’s outer thigh, fingers pushing under his sweater until his palm rests on Q’s lower back, dragging the man closer as he shifts his focus to Q’s neck, never lingering long enough to leave a mark.

“Just- not the gun.” Q’s voice falters when he tips his head to the side, Bond’s mouth tracing the line of his jaw. “They’re expensive.”

So Bond stops losing the Walther on purpose, making sure at least one of Q’s other devices are broken before he returns to London. Most of the time, he’s not even the person responsible. 

\---

While he’s busy working with Medical to be cleared for another mission, M calls for him, delivering the news that Q is believed to be abducted and Bond is supposed to go after him.

“You have the license for a reason,” Eve thinks to remind him as she walks Bond to Q branch. “Use it when necessary.”

“Anything for Q,” Bond assures her, preparing himself to get his gadgets knowing that Q hasn’t checked them and won’t be giving the case to him personally. He’d grown comfortable with being able to trust his gear.

\---

Bond speeds to the closest compound, ignoring the shouts behind him as he rounds a corner and drags the motorcycle nearly horizontal, sliding in under a garage door and tumbling away from the toppled bike as trucks rumble past outside, roaring into the distance. He takes two deep breaths, letting the silence settle before pushing off his hands and wiping off the sandy dirt.

Two growls gather into one, bared teeth shining as Rottweilers emerge from the shadows in front of him.

“Just my luck,” Bond mutters, taking a slow step back as he searches the concrete and tin shelter for something to hide behind or defend himself with. Another truck goes past outside, telling him it’s not an option to escape that way unless he’d rather be riddled with bullet holes than bite marks. 

There’s iron framework splitting the first floor and a small loft area. Hoping he’s aligned himself properly, Bond lowers himself into a braced crouch, leaping just as the dogs launch themselves forward and race toward him with a snarl. With desperation and grace, he catches the beam, using his weight to raise himself over it, getting a leg onto the opposite side and watching the beasts jump at him from below. Their barking will draw attention soon enough, but Bond is powerless to stop them, having lost his gun hours ago. He’s trying to position himself so he can get the drop on whoever comes to calm the dogs when they're cowed into silence by a gentle whistle.

“And here I thought you would be the one saving me. One of life’s little jokes,” Q says, patting the dogs’ sides before he sends them away. He waits for Bond to climb down, the agent dropping lightly on his toes before he straightens, adjusting his rumpled clothes.

“Guess I owe you for that.”

Q nods, handing Bond a mostly finished weapon as he grabs a small bag from a nearby shelf, walking toward one of the larger garage doors.

“MI6 thought you’d be locked up in a small room somewhere being tortured to the brink of death,” the agent says, glancing around to find a fully outfitted workshop.

“As did I. If I knew it would turn out like this, I would have just asked for time off. They’re actually rather nice.”

“When you’re not on the wrong end of their guns,” Bond corrects, resisting a groan when Q unveils a sleek silver car that looks equally expensive and fast. “You shouldn’t have.”

“And hopefully I live to regret it,” he says, tossing Bond the keys after unlocking the passenger door. “She’s everything but bulletproof, so I hope you know how to drive serpentine.” The car rumbles to life beneath them and Bond leans over the center console, dragging Q in by the curls at the base of his skull for a kiss, enjoying the startled breath that escapes the Quartermaster.

“I really must insist that we…” Q trails off, staring at Bond’s smile through heavy eyelids, allowing himself to be pulled in again before continuing. “-make our escape and then settle any debts.”

“You built me a car, Q. I think you’ve pulled ahead a bit.”

“Technically, I built them a car and we’re stealing it,” he points out, drawing back into his own seat as a truck stops outside the garage door that Bond slid through, men shuffling underneath the gap and spotting the wreckage. They begin to shout for back-up and Bond shoots the cable keeping their own door in place, metal rattling upward as the car lurches into a hasty turn and Q reaches up to grip a custom-installed roof handle, looking faintly green. “But it’s yours if we get out of this alive.” 

\---

Q learns to never presume that Bond will follow through. He trains himself out of the habit that could form, always waiting for Bond to make the first suggestion, because it retains this flimsy construct of an agreement they created - and as much as the agent seems content to map the lines of Q’s figure, he doesn’t dare believe that Bond’s always going to offer this unusual payback. Q jumps whenever the hands do reach out, but Bond doesn’t bother mentioning it or mocking Q’s mask of indifference that doesn’t falter until his lips are bruised and he’s forgotten how to think.

He’s just finished guiding 002 through an intricate network of tunnels when Bond enters Q branch, fresh out of Medical. The abroad agent thanks him as Q gets them outside, leaving the call so they can operate without distractions.

It’s not until Bond’s lifted him onto his office desk that they say anything, words murmured against his lips entering the haze of Q’s mind as the agent’s hand coasts along the top of his thigh, finding the hem of his sweater and pushing underneath to settle against his stomach.

“Do you have a deal like this with the other Double-O’s?”

Q doesn’t answer at first, enjoying the way his abdomen tightens as Bond’s hand flattens out, a heated palm pressing against the skin. The question isn’t judgmental or demanding, or even suggesting that Q’s answer will change anything. He would call it possessive curiosity if he had to – and he wants to – so he speaks honestly, equally curious to see how Bond will react.

“No. They don’t ask me for favors like you do. Maybe you should learn something from them,” he sighs, controlling a shudder as Bond’s hand shifts to wrap around his side. 

“Not if it means abandoning my dear Quartermaster to his own devices.”

Q doesn’t hide his exasperation as Bond grins against his neck, another wandering hand dragging the collar aside so he can press a kiss into the rise of Q’s shoulder.

“Well, don’t consider yourself abandoned when I have to leave shortly. I promised Eve we’d go for lunch.”

“Can I join you?” Bond asks. It’s out of left field and Q acts like it, a wordless sound escaping as Bond moves back to his mouth, Q’s hands clutching the agent’s shirt so he doesn’t tip backward in surprise and make some serious noises of distress. By the time Bond pulls away, Q has to agree, accepting another long kiss that grounds the shock lingering in his gut, warmth spilling through his ribcage and encouraging his hands to slide up the broad, well-clothed chest. They weave together behind Bond’s neck to keep him in place.

“We could be late,” Q says. “I’ll get five minutes of lenience if I tell her I was waiting for you.”

“Ten if we blame Medical,” Bond whispers, enjoying their languid press of mouths as though slowing down will give them more time. Q would do anything for more time. 

In truth, he already does.


	2. Chapter 2

The phone rings through the empty workshop around midnight and Q connects the call, sending all the work on his screen away.

“Hello, Q.”

“This is a no contact mission, 007. If they’re monitoring calls, you could blow your cover.”

There’s the muffled sound of gunshots and Bond’s labored breathing before he can reply. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. Can you get me out?”

“Working on it. You’re on the roof?”

“Circle gets the square.”

The Walther fires, a sound that Q knows well. Unfortunately, he also knows the sound of it clicking as the magazine is spent, rendering the weapon useless. Well, as useless as a blunt instrument can be in the hands of a Double-O.

“Quick as you can,” Bond says, his visual coming up as Q gets access to the camera feeds in and around the building. Their security system is attacking back, but it dwarfs the Quartermaster’s own combat measures and he’s able to observe the sunny surroundings for an escape route.

“Two meters to your left, there’s a ledge. I need you to jump it and get as far out as you can in exactly three seconds.” There’s a silent count on both ends, then he hears more gunshots and shoes against cement, Q watching the screens without breathing.

Bond curses once he lands, the trash barely breaking his fall as the truck rolls on, unaware of its new passenger.

“If this ever happens again, feel free to take your time and come up with something better,” Bond groans, ducking against the inside wall of the heavy metal container as goons appear at the roof’s edge to look for him. The truck turns a corner, speeding up while the clear roads move it onward to safety.

“Will that be all, 007?”

“I bloody hope so,” he says, taking a moment to recover before grabbing the edge and waiting for a red light. The truck stops and he climbs down, disappearing off a side street. Q follows him with the cameras, mentioning a nearby hotel with an opening. He books a room and all Bond has to do is check in, remaining on the phone with him as he unlocks the door.

“What happened?”

“I had my shot at the kingpin. They didn’t like me very much after he was dead.”

Q congratulates him, organizing an early return flight for the morning. There’s the sound of the shower starting, then the rustle of clothes and quiet breathing as Bond’s adrenaline drops back to standard levels. It leaves Q feeling bold, the empty workshop making it as though they could be in his office – together and alone. “I guess you owe me then.”

When Bond replies, he can hear that the agent's smiling. 

“Sweet dreams, Q.”

\---

Q falls over the arm of the couch and shuffles back until he’s reached the other side, so occupied by Bond’s mouth against his own that he doesn’t notice careful hands drawing down the zipper until it’s already done.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you that’s a bad idea,” Q breathes, shuddering as Bond gets a hand on him and kisses the pulse thundering beneath his skin. His fingers drag over Bond’s dense shoulders as the agent shifts his own weight back, and Q gets light-headed when steady hands push up on his shirt, untucking it to leave a soft mark on his abdomen. “Bond, tell me you’re joking.”

Q buries his face in his sleeve throughout, avoiding the agent’s intent gaze, but Bond doesn’t mind at all. It’s still a lovely view.

\---

Tanner asks him again for the paperwork and Q hands it over, his mind acting a bit like cooked oatmeal. Bond did that. As part of this game of chicken they seem to be playing. He’s still lost, blinking at screens to find that half an hour has passed while he thought of nothing but Bond’s hand pressing down on his hip and the way he moaned around-

“Q.”

He looks up to see Eve, wondering where Tanner went.

“M wanted me to deliver these but I’m not sure you could read anything at the moment. Are you ill?”

“Not physically,” Q says, leaving the files where Eve set them, knowing he couldn’t possibly retain anything he read at the moment. “I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

“Nothing urgent,” she assures him, still faintly concerned when she steps aside to let one of the techies set down a fresh cup of steaming tea meant for Q. He thinks Eve brings the deliverer along on her way out, likely asking them to keep an eye on their Quartermaster, but there’s no need. Q can’t go anywhere with his mind so distracted by the feeling of bristled hair under his fingertips and the heat of Bond’s shoulders against his inner thighs. 

Q reaches for his mug, sipping the drink to find that it has chilled to room temperature in his latest mental absence. He’s not sure it would have helped even if the tea was still hot.

\---

The satellite office that MI6 set up in Greece has just been recalled, Q branch materials carted out in subtle armored vehicles. Although the mission is over, Q isn’t expecting to see Bond until they’ve both returned to London – so when the agent appears at the building in which MI6 was operating and requests that Q follow him, he’s not sure what to expect.

“A beach picnic,” he concludes, staring at the spread blanket, an ice bucket of champagne and a fresh buffet with wary eyes. There’s nothing in the world that would stop Q from accepting, but he would like to know why Bond has chosen now to step over their clear-cut boundaries. “My flight leaves in two hours and Eve promised to look after me while I was drugged to sleep through it.”

“That’s strange. Mine doesn’t leave until morning.” Bond’s weight is pressed against Q from behind as his hands run over Q’s bare arms, their weather-adapted outfits making them seem more like tourists than spies. He can’t help a shiver as Bond’s breath rushes over the space below his ear, the sunset and everything else about this situation growing more improbable by the second.

“From what I could tell, you escaped with Ms. Martine. Surely she was interested.”

“Didn’t notice,” Bond mutters, almost making the Quartermaster laugh. She had blatantly asked if he could help her blow off some steam only three hours ago, and Q knows that because it’s when he cut the comm recording and ordered the clean-up of the MI6 hideout. “And it’s a private beach picnic,” he corrects, circling Q to take his hands, walking backward to the blanket with a gentle pull.

~

Q checks his watch, Bond's form lying stretched on its side against Q's left and suitably distracting him while he comes to the realization that he’s missed his flight. With a bit of embarrassment, Q also accepts that because Eve never reached out to ask where he was, she’d correctly assumed that he was delayed by a certain Double-O.

“Do you have any idea how much a last-minute flight change will cost?”

“No, but I’m sure I can make it up,” Bond says, rising easily to his feet. His half-unbuttoned shirt is further opened, amused eyes watching as Q shifts to his elbows and sighs in long-suffering surrender. The agent starts backing away and Q’s eyebrows draw together, forced to wait for an explanation as Bond tosses the shirt toward his abandoned spot on the blanket, dragging down his shorts and throwing them aside as well. He’s turned by the time Q looks up from the abandoned clothing, expectant eyes glancing over his shoulder in challenge as he walks into the surf.

Confident that Bond is at a safe distance and the crashing waves are loud enough, Q curses and speaks a quiet thanks to no one in particular, struggling to his feet as he heads for the water.

“I don’t think you’ve thought this through, 007.”

“Why’s that?” Bond asks, lower half submerged in the sea and drawing further away.

“Because it’s not what you’re known for,” he calls, the subtle jab making Bond grin.

“That’s why I brought you along, Q. I’ll be here when you’ve thought it through for both of us.”

Bond doesn’t have to wait long.

\---

“Emergencies only,” Q says, sliding the smaller box toward Bond. The agent takes it with the rest, probably assuming it’s a communication device or computer kill code. The instructions are in the lid, so Q’s not worried about its true purpose being misunderstood.

~

The woman, Alexa, reads through their deal as Bond is carried into the long room, bruised and bleeding sluggishly from a cut along his hairline- but they’re clearly still afraid of him, staying at one side while he’s held at the other. The columns seem sturdy enough. His mark turns, eyeing him as she clicks her tongue.

“You arrived far too late to change anything.”

The man on the other side of the table has no pen for her, tapping his pockets only to bow in apology. Her partner - the one Bond pretended to seduce for information access - hums faintly, memory sparked by a certain stage of undress. She approaches alone, reaching into Bond’s jacket and sliding her hand back out with the pen between her fingers. The agent thrashes weakly, pretending to be more debilitated than he truly is in order to test the guards’ grip on his arms. He could probably hide behind one of them if he times it right.

Alexa thanks her partner, accepting the instrument with childish arrogance. She leans over the document, preparing to sign the dotted line that would give the men across from her ownership to countless weapon schematics stolen by her company for an appropriate amount of money.

“Oh, Mr. Bond. Brought low by your own preparedness.” She clicks the pen, but no nib appears. She clicks it twice more in irritation and the point finally extends, making her hand relax in pleased victory. 

Bond twists the arm of the guard on his right, leg kicking out to break the other’s knee. He curls his fist, punching the first square in the nose and feeling the crack under his knuckles that almost certainly means immediate unconsciousness. There is just enough time for Bond to duck behind the man as he collapses and the fuse winds down, Alexa realizing that she’s made a mistake after it’s too late to act on it. 

The room explodes outward, Bond bracing against the force of it with covered ears.

~

He knocks on Q’s door, barely waiting until it has been fully opened before grasping at Q with both hands, driving him back into the closest wall and tasting a gasp as it escapes. They break apart only long enough for Bond to shut and lock the door, Q trying to catch his breath while Bond divests himself of his suit jacket.

“Pen worked?” he asks breathlessly, smiling as Bond loosens his tie and approaches.

“Pen worked,” Bond confirms with another kiss, Q pulled toward the bedroom fast enough that he almost slips on the hardwood floor.

~

Bond doesn’t bother hiding his wince when Q traces the healing bruises that stain his skin, the man pausing before he looks up from the injuries.

“I should have stopped you.”

“Like I would’ve listened,” Bond says, tracing the shell of Q’s ear to watch the dark waves fall back into place. He can see the question lingering in the Quartermaster’s eyes, but he waits until Q lays back against his shoulder to ask about it. There’s a moment of doubt, the emotion being one that Q normally doesn’t possess, and Bond tries to encourage him with a faint hum.

“The pen wasn’t field-tested before I gave it to you. Did you notice anything I would have to adjust before ordering a replacement? I wouldn’t want to cause more damage than absolutely necessary.”

Bond smiles as the words process, assuring Q that he hasn’t committed the faux pas of mentioning their jobs in bed by using the hand around his waist to draw him in, tilting up his chin with the other hand until their lips graze, hinting at more.

“I’ll submit a full report in the morning.”

\---

Bond ignores the damp cloth being run down his temple, eyes watching the traffic through the hotel lobby’s small and shuttered window. There’s the purr of a smooth engine and he’s drawn to his feet, placing a hand on the woman’s back to guide her outside and reaching the alley as a subtle black car pulls up. It’s not his favorite model, but it’s made better when he realizes that Q is the one stepping out of the driver seat, a summer suit drawing Bond’s eye to long legs and the view of his slim waist is only partially interrupted by a shoulder bag.

Q tries to shake off his frown as Bond opens the passenger door to urge the witness into the vehicle. He’d been pissed when he returned to MI6 in the morning and heard that the agent had dropped contact overnight- not for any personal reasons. He had a bet with Eve that Bond could go another month without giving M a migraine, and that’s another day’s worth of pay he’s lost to her. 

When Bond called a week later, he didn’t give a story and Q didn’t ask for one, but as soon as Bond requested transport, he knew the company car he’d been sent with was destroyed.

“A chase through a city of narrow alleyways and stairs wasn’t your smartest move, Bond.” Q tosses the keys over the roof, watching the agent catch them with ease.

“It wouldn’t have been any better to get out of the car,” he points out. As he circles the hood, Q backs away from the open door so Bond can step into the gap. He’s surprised by the arm that circles to rest against his lower back, mostly because he’s clearly still frowning and the plaza isn’t deserted.

Bond brings him in a step, eyes tracing the hollow of Q's throat where it’s visible under his unbuttoned collar. “The suit.”

“Eve picked it out last weekend.”

“Thank her for me,” Bond says, a faint smirk pulling up the edge of his mouth. He forgets his amusement against Q’s mouth, leaning away as a pair of chatting locals pass at the alleyway entrance. “Where are you staying?”

“That’s classified,” Q whispers, feeling another relaxed kiss draw the irritation from his tensed muscles. He’d like to stay mad a little longer, but Bond isn’t giving him much choice, and when his hand comes up to cradle the agent’s jaw, Bond pulls back to press his mouth against the palm, eyes sliding open with a glint of mischief.

“I have Double-O clearance.”

Q lets his worry show for a brief enough moment that they can both pretend it never happened at all, and it's only present because Bond has a terrible habit of getting into more trouble than necessary. There’s a sentiment caught in his throat. Q takes shallow breaths until it fades, moving to retrieve the notecard he’d prepared at the hotel while still stewing in his anger.

“For your eyes only,” Q confirms, sliding the small reminder into Bond’s inner jacket pocket. “I expect you to be on time when I give you a watch like that.”

“I won’t disappoint,” Bond says, winking as his arm withdraws from Q’s waist. He dips into the driver seat, waiting until the Quartermaster has stepped out of tire range to turn down a wide side street and disappear. Q grips his satchel strap hard enough that the leather creaks, turning in a small circle before he remembers which way it was to get back to the hotel.

~

Dust floats in the air above him, and Bond thinks briefly that he’s gone blind in one eye. He pries the lids open with a careful hand, realizing that his blood has grown tacky while he was out, the echoing heel of a rifle to his temple reminding him to sit up slowly if he insists on moving right now. The goons are gone, ropes cut. He remembers that they weren’t important right before he remembers who struck him, struggling to his feet. The next time he decides to protect someone, he needs to have Q perform a background check to make sure they won’t double-cross him. You think he would have learned by now.

The thought of the Quartermaster has him patting a pocket to feel the note he’s already memorized as a sort of reassurance, but the fabric wrinkles easily. Bond reaches inside, fingers shifting to ensure it’s truly empty before his foggy memories float back to him again, deft and painted fingers plucking the card from his jacket while he was half-conscious.

Bond runs. 

~

The road of the hotel is blocked by police cars and fire trucks, spurring Bond onward only to find that the elevator has shut down, trapping a woman inside and causing all the chaos. Bond hears her yelling for assistance with a vindictive amusement and he continues upstairs, about to knock on Q’s door when the one across the hall opens, the unaffected Quartermaster standing in the doorway.

“007. I’ve tracked where the funds wired to her account came from, if you’re interested in finishing the mission.”

“Always,” Bond replies, following Q inside and accepting the drink that’s handed to him.

The Quartermaster sits beside him on the couch, letting Bond scroll through his findings on the laptop as he cleans away the flaking blood and makes sure Bond doesn’t have a concussion. It’s another mastermind with unclear intentions, also known as Bond’s specialty. Once he’s given all the information he should need to track the man down, he stands and waves away further medical care, prepared to hunt down the person that went after Q instead of ensuring Bond was dead.

He waits for Q to pack, recognizing the panic that seized him when he thought they had killed – or worse, taken Q to be tortured. They step into the hall together once Bond’s cleared it, the metallic booms from the elevator suggesting that they're still hard at work. Bond cradles the back of Q’s head, drawing their foreheads together as he closes his eyes and breathes, a careful hand coming up to rest against the front of his jacket, directly over his heart.

“Get back to London.” He leans away, thumb grazing Q’s jaw. The Quartermaster isn’t smiling, but recent close proximity has given Bond plenty of time to learn the meaning behind that light in his eyes. “Safely,” Bond adds, their hands falling from each other with professional understanding. They still have jobs to do, and thankfully, Q’s involves being behind a desk more often than being in front of a gun.

\---

Q is still on shift when Bond returns from his next mission, striding into the full workshop and heading for Q’s desk.

“You can take the damaged items straight to R. I’ve decided to wash my hands of your reckless destruction of government property.”

He assumes that Bond decided to ignore him as the agent sets his kit down, unfastening the clips and spinning it so he can see what’s inside. The Quartermaster is standing but he thinks he may need to take a seat shortly, hands tracing the perfectly packed equipment with a sharp thorn lodged in his chest.

“Still in working order,” Bond assures him, rounding the desk as Q stares with empty eyes. He’s waiting for the punchline, but the agent seems content to watch him in return, not justifying his actions. Once again, Q is shocked by this sudden break, wondering why Bond thought that doing this now - while Q has to remain unaffected – was the best choice.

“Miracles do happen.”

“So we’re even,” Bond says, his expression testing Q as it did in the museum and in Austria. But MI6 does not hire the fragile.

“Completely,” Q confirms, closing the case with a final click. He turns, holding it out to the closest techie and gesturing for them to take it away, Bond still lingering in his periphery. “If that’s all, 007.”

Q is straightening his sweater, intending to take that needed seat before Bond slides into the space between Q and the edge of the desk, leaning in for a short kiss. As he pulls away, Q feels completely thrown, seeing the hint of a smile on Bond’s lips as he steps back into place at Q’s side, confused eyes following the agent like a magnet. Beyond that, Q gives no sign of distress - which seems to earn him some level of approval.

“I’ll see you tonight then,” Bond murmurs, pure panic clawing at the hope that surges to fill Q from head to toe. 

“You’ll bring dinner?”

The agent nods, fingers trailing over the edge of Q’s desk as he backs around the side, making a sharp turn to leave the way he came. Q stares for a moment, pulling himself out of his daze to retake his seat, testing the returned tech to make sure that it’s still operational.

His computer chimes an hour later, a message from Eve offering a celebratory meal later that night. Someone’s been chatty.

**Busy** , Q replies. **Raincheck?**

\---

He lifts the laptop bag over his head, propping it in the sofa chair as Bond watches him from his reclined place on the couch.

“There are proper ways to do things, especially in our positions. What possessed you to thrust us into the water cooler gossip spotlight?”

“Everyone knew.” Bond removes a hand from behind his head to help Q keep his balance while attempting kneel over Bond’s waist. “Everyone but you,” he corrects, the cushion beneath his head shifting as Q props himself over Bond, leaning down to kiss him silent.

Bond was hoping he’d finally initiate something, but now he’s wondering if he’ll regret giving Q unlimited permission to reach out. With a wandering mouth and light hands, Q seems content to make up for his obliviousness, each accepted touch making him bolder. Bond chuckles in surprise at one particularly harsh drag of teeth to the skin pulled taut over the muscle of his shoulder.

“Does this mean you’ll stop smashing my things on purpose?” Q murmurs, leaning away enough to meet Bond’s eyes.

“Don’t hold your breath.” Bond’s hand finds Q’s hip as they sit up, his rucked up sweater providing room for Bond’s thumb to trace his lowest rib, memorizing the way that Q’s eyelids fall shut. “I brought dinner.”

He kisses Bond again, content to take out his repressed impulses on the person who caused them. Bond’s suit jacket gets caught on the arms when Q tries to help him out of it, the agent’s assistance making the process much smoother; that’s a pro for you.

“Would you be terribly upset if I said to hell with dinner?”

“Only because I didn’t say it first,” Bond replies, turning to get his feet on the ground before forcing them both upright, Q’s calves knocking into the coffee table before he’s steadied.

“Do be careful, Bond. To the best of my knowledge, there’s only one of me.”

The agent stops, pulling back enough to meet Q’s eye. His answering smile is more of a pleased relaxing of his features, the corners of his eyes creasing before he wraps Q closer, the sudden hug making his arms close around Bond’s shoulders.

“Yes, I know.”

Endeared by the gesture, Q closes his eyes, settling in the embrace while exhaustion battles excitement in his mind, Bond’s warmth fighting on both sides.

“This is when you take me to bed, darling.”

Bond’s laugh is soft, and Q hears it only because Bond mouth is so close to his ear. He leans back, obliging Q by turning him in place and using hands on his waist to guide him down the hall. “And what are my intentions exactly?”

“Hard to say. I’ll decide when we get there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought! Kudos and/or comments are so, so appreciated.


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